Hopes. Dreams. 2012.

Here we are: 2012. A date that once seemed so futuristic, so Jetsons, is here. No flying cars, nothing. As for 2011? Well, it wasn't the best year, but it was better than 2010. I'm no longer working the most soul-sucking job of all time. That's a major plus. 2011 brought Prize Winners, my first story collection. And Mile Zero, my second chapbook of poetry. 2011 also brought a lot of writing pain, as every year does for every writer. Rejections ranged from referring to the Alaska collection as "masterful" to one for my love/lust poetry collection that simply read "you can't be serious." And though it felt like I fell behind and wasn't publishing much, I suppose the links in the sidebar to everything that was published this year beg to differ.

There's no way to sum up everything about an entire year. The writers I talk to on a regular basis know what their existence means to me. And I hope anyone who reads this blog or anything else I do know they, too are deeply appreciated. Writing and having any group of peers matched with any sort of audience is like having an amazing secondary family.

As for my real family, my boys turned 3 and 13 in 2011. Not the easiest of ages, but they (along with my beautiful wife) are what keep me waking up in the morning and going to work. And they are what I look forward to coming home to all day long. There's nothing better than walking in the door at the end of the day and having a 3 year old come running through the house screaming "dad!"

And 2012. 2012 will see the publication of Code for Failure, my first novel! I'm excited to see this book finally reach the world.

But dare I speak of hopes and dreams? Dare I speak of the new novel, sitting in the hands (or more likely a pile on a desk) of my agent? Dare I speak of the full length poetry manuscripts that are beginning to pile up on the ol' hard drive? Dare I speak of my baby, the Alaska collection? My hopes and dreams are no different than those of other writers. One day, may the stars align. For us all.

Until then, I will strive to do more. Of all of it. The hoping, dreaming, and working.

My 3 year old became aware the other night that I stay up after everyone else goes to bed and he asked why. I told him to write. He asked why. "Because Dada wants to write books," I told him. "Oh," he said. "That's long work."